


Curls

by what_a_dork_fish



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Confessions, Fluff, Geralt with curly hair is cute okay!!!!!!!, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Haircuts, Hugs, I don't like Yennefer so. yeah., I don't remember why I added her scene, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, M/M, Yennefer is kinda shitty in this one lol, slight murdering of people who deserved it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:33:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23882353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_a_dork_fish/pseuds/what_a_dork_fish
Summary: A haircut is given and so are confessions.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 55
Kudos: 208





	Curls

**Author's Note:**

> Shameless ripoff of an idea by anarchycox on tumblr. I don't know how to link things. I am so sorry.

It was all that blasted drake’s fault.

And then it was Jaskier’s fault.

It was _not_ Geralt’s fault.

He’d just been hunting, just trying to get some money to buy food (they couldn’t afford an inn but by the gods he was going to make sure Jaskier was fed). He’d felt the heat radiating off the drake’s lair. He’d been as silent as a cat, as focused as a wolf—

And barely dodged the gout of flame from above.

That fight had been ferocious, but finally he had the beast’s head, and was trudging wearily back to the grassy cup in the mountains where he’d left Roach and Jaskier. The side of his head felt strange, and there was no hair brushing his shoulder there. Maybe it had been slicked back by blood.

Jaskier jumped up when he saw Geralt, and tried to scrabbled up the rocks to him—but then he stopped, mouth agape and eyes wide. Geralt frowned as he drew even with Jaskier and asked sharply, “What?”

“Your hair is burned off,” Jaskier told him, pointing to the strange spot.

Geralt’s hand flew to the spot, and he realized with horror that, indeed, a good chunk of his hair had been burned away.

Oh, no.

Jaskier said, as if it were natural and right, “We’ll have to cut off the singed parts, and trim down the rest. You look silly like this.”

“No,” Geralt snapped, “It’s fine.”

“ _Geralt_ ,” Jaskier said, exasperated, “It is _not_ fine. How would you like the whole continent knowing you look like this? Not even song travels faster than gossip. Let me cut it. I’m going to have to wash it anyways, you got blood in it again.” Jaskier stepped closer and ran his fingers through Geralt’s hair, assessing the damage; but Geralt was assessing Jaskier’s lips, and his shoulders, and the peek of chest hair from his opened doublet. And his eyes. Geralt greatly enjoyed looking at his eyes up close. They sparkled and had depth and…

“Geralt? Are you alright?”

“I don’t want my hair cut,” Geralt said.

Jaskier frowned at him. Then he said, “Fine, but don’t blame me when people stop taking you seriously because you’re missing chunks of hair.”

Well, that would never do. But he couldn’t let Jaskier know. He’d have to hold out, and pretend—

Jaskier suddenly grinned, beautiful eyes twinkling. “You just decided to agree,” he teased, “I can read you by now, Geralt. You don’t want them to laugh at you over this. Well, come on, let’s go sit down by that stream and I’ll fix your hair.”

Geralt scowled and followed.

Even with harsh travel-soap instead of Jaskier’s preferred shampoo, having Jaskier wash his hair was an experience Geralt never failed to marvel at. He didn’t yank, like others had, when Geralt was younger; he didn’t scrape his scalp. Just enough scratching to lift the dander, and gentle fingers working through the rest. It always felt nice. Even when he sat on a cold rock, shirtless, on a cool night, his head being doused with cold water. Jaskier’s attention made up for it.

“Alright, my dear wolf,” Jaskier said finally, combing out the wet strands before they could tangle, “Let me get my scissors and we’ll fix this.”

Call me that again, Geralt thought, but what he said was, “You have scissors?”

“Yes, yes, extravagant, I know,” Jaskier sighed dramatically, as he fished in his saddlebags. “But scissors are surprisingly helpful when a knife just won’t be enough. Face front again.”

So Geralt did, and balled his hands into fists in his lap as Jaskier started cutting, humming gently. With each lock that fell, dread tightened further in his stomach. When Jaskier stepped back with a satisfied, “There we go!” Geralt was so tense he felt like he was going to break.

Jaskier ran his fingers through Geralt’s hair, fluffing it a little. “It could stand for a bit more trimming in the back,” he hummed, “But it’s getting dark. By the way, how long has it been since you’ve had short hair? Because these curls are” don’t say it don’t say it “very handsome.”

Geralt blinked. “Handsome?” he repeated, startled. Everyone throughout his life had called them ‘adorable’, which was a bad look for a Witcher. But… handsome?

Jaskier chuckled. “Oh ye of little faith. What else did you expect me to say? You are very handsome, not matter what, and your hair matches that. But I do know of a way to make a straightener-cream, if you’d like to try it.”

Geralt was silent for a moment. Then he said softly, “No. This is fine.”

Jaskier rested his hands on Geralt’s shoulder for a moment. “Alright,” he said, and there was so much fondness in his tone that Geralt felt… unclean. Unworthy. But he liked it all the same.

~

He kept his hood up, masking nervousness, as he exchanged the head for a fat bag of coin. Enough for a night in an inn. Good. Except Geralt didn’t want to be seen in an inn.

The headman was staring at him. Geralt turned away without thanking him. Jaskier did the thanking instead, and hurried to catch up.

“Can we _please_ go to the inn?” Jaskier whined. “Roach needs a roof over her head.”

“You mean you do.”

“Well, yes. And a bed. A real one. With lots of ale.” Jaskier glanced at Geralt sidelong, and frowned. “You’re really worried, aren’t you,” he murmured.

“Of course I’m not,” Geralt grunted.

They were silent as they walked. Then Jaskier brightened, and said, “Well, I suppose we can keep going. I don’t mind.”

“Yes you do,” Geralt muttered.

“I’m serious. It’s fine.”

Geralt sighed heavily, then nodded.

But just as they were passing the inn, he reached out and grabbed Jaskier’s arm, dragging him into the inn’s yard. Jaskier spluttered a little, but it was halfhearted. Passing through the door, he seemed to relax, and Geralt let go of him.

Laundering and two beds were arranged. Jaskier was quite pleased when the innkeeper asked if he could play a song for them. Geralt just went to his room and changed into his spare shirt, wiping the blood off his trousers and boots with a rag and sitting down to clean his armor. He heard the first strains of Jaskier’s lute coming up through the floorboards, and found himself relaxing. When they were alone on the road, Jaskier managed to stick to soft songs, quiet ones that he made up silly lyrics to in an effort to make Geralt smile. Geralt refused to admit that he had, on occasion, snorted at the silliness. But there was something calming in hearing his more vigorous songs, as well, as long as Geralt wasn’t stuck in the crush of humanity, nose stinging with overflowing scent, ears ringing with the noise of these loud creatures.

Geralt moved to the floor, cleaning his armor slowly and carefully, listening.

“The griffins were hungry, lying in wait, their beaks and claws sharpened on bone; but the hunters were lead by a Witcher, whose resolve was stronger than stone.”

Geralt smiled softly as Jaskier sang his adventurous ballad about battle and bloodshed and incorrect but entertaining griffin facts. It was one of the few that Geralt liked despite inaccuracies. He never told anyone that he liked any of Jaskier’s songs. He might stop trying so hard to write something Geralt would enjoy, and he seemed to always need a challenge when it came to writing.

There were more songs. Jaskier really was quite good. Geralt found himself humming along under his breath, polishing the metal studs in his armor over and over and over.

Someone was approaching Geralt’s door; they smelled like lust and perfume and the kind of excitement he’d learned long ago was humans who liked danger. He stopped humming. His smile dropped. He didn’t feel like having sex.

Well, physically, he wouldn’t mind it; it’d been several weeks since he’d had the coin to pay a woman to share his bed. But thrill-seekers annoyed him. There was always a lot of gushing about how they weren’t afraid of him. He used to not care. When had he started caring?

Maybe the first time he’d demanded, in a fit of anger and self-loathing, why Jaskier had accepted his apology, and Jaskier had looked at him, and smiled, and said “Because I’m not scared of you.”

The person outside—lots of scent-hints, Geralt suspected a woman—knocked softly on his door. He ignored it. A few more knocks, and some waiting, and then disappointment, and he clearly heard her mutter, “Fine, maybe the bard would like company.”

And that made Geralt simply furious.

It took him a moment to get it under control, but when he did, he put on his armor again, threw on his cloak, pulled up the hood, and left his room, locking it with a sign as well as the key. Then he went downstairs, asked for a tankard, and slunk to a dark corner to watch Jaskier.

The bard was grinning as he sang, and obviously being a complete fucking flirt with the few women listening. Normally it was amusing. Right then, it made Geralt grit his teeth.

But he couldn’t look away. It had taken him a while to realize that Jaskier’s shoulders were nearly as wide as Geralt’s own, and his waist wasn’t as small as his clothes made it seem, and his legs—no, best not to think about his legs. Or his hands. Geralt had learned only a little while ago that thinking about Jaskier’s hands made him flustered in ways he didn’t understand and therefore hated.

A very familiar scent entered the inn. Geralt couldn’t place it and didn’t care; Jaskier had moved on to a story about a lady who fell in love with a cursed knight, who claimed her hand by the law of surprise, and the subsequent fiasco that followed. God, he remembered that madness. At least Ciri was safe at Jaskier’s manor, which Geralt had been surprised to realize actually existed. The servants were used to their master’s wandering, and had agreed to care for Ciri until it was safe for Geralt to bring her with him on travels.

But Jaskier was coming to the climax of the battle, and Geralt couldn’t look away…

Someone cleared their throat.

His eyes snapped up to the woman walking up to him, blocking his view of Jaskier. At first he was angry and confused; who the fuck was she? But then she pulled back her hood, and his face went blank.

“Yennefer,” he said tightly.

“Geralt,” she replied coldly. “You seem rather distracted today.”

“Hm,” he answered. His stomach was twisting, and he was very confused. On the one hand, he was feeling shivering and… well, _drawn_ to her, to her scent and power and beauty.

But on the other, Jaskier was still singing. And Jaskier was more important. Geralt did not know how or why or when, but Jaskier was more important than Yennefer.

“Either sit down or go away,” Geralt told her, too angry to be polite.

Yennefer narrowed her eyes, jaw clenching, but settled gracefully across from him. Jaskier finished the song, and bowed with a flourish as the crowd clapped and called out appreciation. Geralt watched critically, but Jaskier seemed unwilling to sing another song. He beamed impartially at the crowd, then caught sight of Geralt watching, and the smile changed, became affectionate and warm. Geralt couldn’t think of what to do—he certainly couldn’t smile back—so he raised his tankard to Jaskier, and took a drink.

“He’s so charming when he isn’t singing,” Yennefer said with poisonous sweetness. Geralt glanced at her just in time to see her smile mockingly at Jaskier—and his eyes returned to the bard in time to see his warm smile freeze, and his body tense. Geralt knew that posture; Jaskier was preparing for a fight.

In an attempt to quell this inevitable encounter, Geralt turned to Yennefer and asked bluntly, “What do you want?”

“What, am I not allowed to enjoy the company of a Witcher on the run?” she asked mockingly.

“No, because you’re a snake,” Geralt grunted. Jaskier had called her that once, when he was very drunk and hadn’t known Geralt was there. And the more Geralt had thought, the more he’d decided Jaskier was right. Now, glaring at Yennefer’s offended and angry face, he saw that he had been a fool to ever think she loved him, and he, her. He would’ve done anything for her—a year ago. Now he was out from under her spell (mostly) and knew that she just saw him as a tool to use and drop whenever she felt like it.

He would not allow that again. Not after what had happened last time.

Before she could reply, a hand slammed down on the table between them, and Jaskier leaned his hip on the edge of the table, facing Yennefer and blocking her from Geralt. “Yennefer, how nice to see you!” Jaskier said, in that sweet, gentle tone Geralt had heard twice before, right before Jaskier pulled a dagger from his boot and stabbed whoever he was talking to. “However did you find us?”

“Jaskier, dear, hello,” Yennefer replied, tightly. “I simply followed the signs. Why are you trying to intimidate me?”

“Well, it looked like Geralt was getting tired of your company, I felt like someone should step in,” Jaskier replied, and yes, Geralt glanced down and saw his feet repositioning, so he could grab a dagger more quickly. Shit. This was going to end in bloodshed if Geralt didn’t do something.

But, then again… he was flattered. That Jaskier wanted to protect him. And a horrible, selfish part of him wanted to see how far that protection went.

“How do you know anything?” Yennefer demanded. Geralt wished he could see her face without craning around Jaskier’s arm. “You’re just a bard.”

Jaskier chuckled, very cold and quiet, and said, “I certainly know more than you do, witch. How long has it been since you’ve captured a heart without a spell or potion? And why did you think any such spell would last more than a year on a Witcher, of all people?”

“I could kill you before you blink,” Yennefer hissed, and Geralt stood, one hand going to the hilt of his first sword.

“You’d be without a head in seconds if you did,” Jaskier replied sweetly, “Or do you plan to try and kill Geralt as well?”

It was actually rather nice that Jaskier knew him so well.

Yennefer looked between them, towering over her, and her anger began to be doubtful. But then she shoved it all away with a tight smile and said, “I have a job for you.”

“We don’t want it,” Jaskier and Geralt chorused.

“I’ll pay you well.”

“Perhaps you didn’t hear us,” Geralt said coldly.

Jaskier leaned closer to Yennefer and said softly, “We don’t want your job.”

Then Jaskier straightened, Geralt let go of his sword, and they strode side-by-side to the stairs. The inn was almost silent as they went upstairs, Geralt twitching his hand to gesture for Jaskier to go first up the narrow, rickety steps. When they reached the upper floor, Jaskier turned and said softly, “I’m sorry.”

Geralt shook his head and put his hand on Jaskier’s arm. “You were right,” he muttered. “Maybe we should stay in the same room, so she can’t catch either of us alone.”

Jaskier actually blushed, and began to smile, but he smothered it somehow and just nodded. “Yours or mine?” he whispered, and Geralt wondered if he had ever heard Jaskier sound so shy.

“Yours. If she tries to portal in, I’ll run her through.”

“You don’t mean that,” Jaskier said flatly, his eyes on the floor.

“Jaskier.” Geralt gripped his chin gently and tilted his face up. It still startled him sometimes that they were almost the same height. When had he forgotten that? “I mean it.”

Jaskier studied Geralt’s face for a moment, his own thoughtful. Then he smiled, the warm, affectionate smile that Geralt never got enough of these days, and said “Thank you.”

So Geralt moved his things into Jaskier’s room, and set up in the chair by the window while Jaskier changed clothes and flopped into bed with a sigh.

“Gods, I missed real beds,” Jaskier murmured dreamily as he snuggled down under the blanket. “Wake me up if anything interesting happens.”

“I will,” Geralt promised.

But nothing is as interesting as you.

~

There was no sign of Yennefer the next day, but there had certainly been _some_ kerfuffle, because the innkeeper scowled at Geralt and Jaskier and ignored Jaskier’s cheerful thanks. And when they went to the stables, the stableboy glared at them sullenly and refused to tell them where Roach’s tack was. At least, he did until Geralt loomed and Jaskier said in an offhanded manner, “Magic-users sure are annoying, but have you ever seen what an angry Witcher can do?”

They were soon on their way, and Jaskier spent most of the day singing and telling Roach what a good girl she was and picking flowers to make into a crown for himself. Geralt wondered, but this had happened before, and he enjoyed Jaskier’s jubilant bursts of song about birds and spring and the earth waking up. He couldn’t say that, of course.

Geralt pushed back his hood because it was getting hot, and blinked at how light and clean his head felt, without long hanks of greasy hair on the back of his neck. He ran his hand through his hair, frowning. Well… maybe he could get used to short hair. Even if it was curly.

Jaskier laughed and the sound almost took Geralt’s breath away.

“Why are you scowling?” Jaskier asked, skipping around in front of Roach to walk backwards in front of Geralt. He was smiling, like he usually did when he looked at Geralt.

Please never stop smiling, Geralt thought to himself, in the quietest, most out-of-the-way corner of his mind.

“I’m not,” Geralt grunted, and caught Jaskier’s arm as he stumbled over a rock. “Stop walking backwards.”

“Fine, fine.” Jaskier turned on his heel and instead walked beside Geralt, so close they sometimes brushed shoulders. “But really, what’s got you frowning like that?”

“It’s… different.”

“Your hair?”

Geralt nodded.

Jaskier smiled again. “I told you, it looks quite handsome. Dignified. If you grew a beard you’d look even more like a professor of history.”

“I’m not a professor, and I don’t want to be mistaken for one.”

“Fine. You could be a king, maybe, of a small and peaceful country that no one dares to attack because your warriors are the fiercest and best trained.”

Geralt snorted.

“I’m serious, Geralt! The long hair was sexy, but the short hair is, too.”

“Even though it’s curly?”

“Is _that_ what’s bothering you? The curls?” Jaskier actually sounded surprised.

“Yes,” Geralt replied shortly, cringing inside at this admittance. It was such a small thing to be worried about.

“Well. I’ll tell you _my_ impression.”

“Please don’t.” Please do.

“You look in control now,” Jaskier said firmly. “The long hair made you look wild and untamed, which is alright to a point, but short hair makes you more controlled, more like you’re capable of taking over an entire country with your swords and your words. And your friend the humble bard.”

“Jaskier.”

“Hush, let me finish. Being wild can only get you so far in interactions with humans. This way, they’re more likely to be that peculiar mix of afraid of your profession, but soothed by your appearance. Because you _are_ a professional. You know what you can do, and you do it well. Also less chance of something grabbing you by the hair and hurting you that way.”

Geralt hmm’d instead of answering. All good points. But his mind kept circling back to Jaskier calling him “sexy”. Did he really think that? Was he attracted to Geralt? Or was he just being a good friend?

“And yes, I think you’re sexy.”

Geralt tripped on air and only a quick grab for Roach’s saddle kept him upright. He looked at Jaskier, wide-eyed, but Jaskier was looking at the side of the road, perhaps searching for more flowers. His cheeks were red, though his face and voice were light and careless.

“It’s very hard not to,” Jaskier continued, and Geralt stopped walking, because he didn’t want to trip again with this new revelation. Jaskier put his hands behind his back and started at the ground. “I mean, you’re very strong, and handsome, and you know you can’t hide how kind you are, not from me. And you’re… different. Since the mountain.”

You are too, Geralt wanted to say. His throat felt tight.

“You don’t… you’re not _mean_. I suppose you weren’t anyway, or at least weren’t trying to be, or maybe you were, I don’t know. But you’re not cruel anymore. Maybe not cruel. Just… I mean...” Jaskier hunched his shoulders and his gaze dropped to his toes. “Fuck,” he said softly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

Geralt couldn’t speak. He had a hundred things he wanted to say—a thousand—but he just… couldn’t. And he couldn’t think of how to make this better.

Because Jaskier was right. Geralt _had_ been cruel. He _had_ been unfair. And it took realizing he would never have Jaskier again if he didn’t change, to make him confront that.

Finally, when the silence got too much, and Geralt’s chest was hurting like someone had stabbed him, he moved. He closed the distance between himself and Jaskier, and hugged his bard roughly.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Jaskier, I’m sorry.”

Jaskier practically melted into Geralt’s embrace, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s waist and holding on so tight, his face pressed to Geralt’s neck.

Gods above, please kiss me.

But they didn’t kiss. They just held on for longer than Geralt had ever hugged anyone. He hadn’t realized how much he would enjoy, need, _crave_ Jaskier’s touch until now.

“You didn’t stop me from threatening Yennefer,” Jaskier whispered.

“I didn’t want her there.”

“You love her.”

“I only thought I did.” I love you more.

Jaskier nodded against his shoulder. “Should we let go?” he asked, his voice softer yet.

“Do you want to?”

“No.” Jaskier somehow tightened his grip. “No.”

Geralt was perfectly willing to stand there like that for hours, but his sensitive ears picked up the hoofbeats of another horse down the road, and he murmured, unable to keep the regret from his voice, “We’re not alone on the road.”

“Fuck,” Jaskier muttered, sounding more like himself. But he let go, and Geralt did too. Jaskier looked up at Geralt, and smiled his wonderful smile. Geralt couldn’t help smiling back, because if Jaskier could forgive him, then maybe all wasn’t lost.

The horse was getting closer. Jaskier sighed and tapped Geralt’s chest with his finger. “Face front, Witcher,” he said, smile fond. “You’re the leader, here.”

Geralt shook his head, but turned and took Roach’s reins again.

It was another traveler, a lone one; a farmer, by his clothes and the baskets slung on his horse’s back. He nodded to Geralt and Jaskier, but did not offer verbal greetings. Geralt nodded back, and judging by the way the farmer started and smiled a little quizzically behind Geralt, he guessed Jaskier had done his usual charming smile.

But almost as soon as the farmer was out of view, Jaskier stepped up and linked his arm with Geralt’s. Geralt blinked, but didn’t protest. Any contact at all was nice.

There was a bit of trouble when they stopped for the night off the road and some bandits got the jump on them. Geralt beheaded one before being thrown to the ground, right in a drift-pile of leaves and dirt, by another. Jaskier was alive, shouting curses and insults at the top of his lungs, and landing hits, if the grunts and yelps of pain were any indication. Geralt ran through the man who had toppled him, scrambled to his feet, and killed another bandit. Jaskier had accounted for two with his dagger. The last two fled.

After a quick check to see if either of them were hurt (Geralt, no; Jaskier, a cut on his cheekbone and a sprained ankle), they moved on, parallel to the road, to another little clearing. Geralt wrapped Jaskier’s ankle and smeared salve on the cut, and then they set up camp. Finally, Geralt sat wearily on a fallen log and cleaned his sword.

Jaskier sighed dramatically and plopped on the log beside Geralt, stretching his legs out. “You have leaves in your hair,” he said, and promptly began running his fingers through Geralt’s locks, dislodging shattered old leaves and a tiny twig. Geralt stared fixedly at his sword while he did, trying not to enjoy the feeling of Jaskier touching him. A futile attempt. It felt nice and Geralt was feeling selfish.

He hadn’t realized he’d begun to list to the side until Jaskier laughed softly. “Oh, do stop being so shy,” he murmured, put his hand on Geralt’s opposite shoulder, and pulled him gently down until his head was in Jaskier’s lap.

Geralt only allowed this because his brain had stopped working as soon as Jaskier had laughed. He lay quite stiffly, as Jaskier put his hand on Geralt’s arm and rubbed it gently.

“Can I touch your hair again or will you run away?” Jaskier asked softly.

“Mm,” Geralt said, because that was all he could manage.

Jaskier began to touch his hair. He twirled it gently around his fingers. He stretched the curls and let go of them. He ran his hand through them. And his other hand was warm on Geralt’s bicep, soothing in its up and down motion. It was really quite unfair, but Geralt found himself relaxing, wriggling a little to get more comfortable on the log without lifting his head from Jaskier’s lap, and not-intentionally-but-actually-yes-very-intentionally turning his face further into Jaskier’s thighs. They were soft and warm and he smelled like grass as well as blood.

Jaskier started humming, and oh, that was completely unfair, because his humming at night was always soothing and made Geralt relax, though he always tried to hide it. The combination of all these things—gentle touch, comfortable thighs, nice scent, and calming hum—made Geralt feel sleepy, and safe, like he had never felt before. Well, that was a lie; he _had_ felt this safe, when he was very small and someone (he couldn’t remember who) would hold him and sing to him in a low, soft voice.

The touch on his hair paused, and then Jaskier took his hand away. Geralt couldn’t stop a sleepy grunt of, “No. More.”

A breathless little laugh, and the touch returned.

He fell asleep like that.

**Author's Note:**

> *takes the lid off a boiling cauldron* Y'all want some uhhhhhh Soup That Encourages You To Comment


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